


you were something (that would always be around)

by Quentanilien



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Fluff, Gen, Pre-Series, Revolution Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 15:50:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3139943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quentanilien/pseuds/Quentanilien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't like he'd expected Miles to be overjoyed. Of the two of them, he'd always been the downer. A dose of pragmatism never hurt anyone, but was it too much to ask that Bass' last remaining family member be at least a little happy for him? At least congratulate him before outlining all the reasons he was an idiot?</p>
<p>(Or it's three years after the blackout, Bass and Miles go hunting, and Miles thinks it's a terrible idea for Bass and Shelly to have a baby.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	you were something (that would always be around)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sasha_b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/gifts).



> Merry (belated) Christmas, sasha_b! Sorry you had to wait so long for this, but I haven't had much practice writing Miles, and he gave me a little trouble. Typical Miles, amiright?

Bass was happy.

It was a foreign feeling. He’d gone so many years without it, had expected to never truly feel it again for the remainder of his life, ever since that night—since the phone call that shattered his world like the glass of his dad’s windshield, the one that embedded fragments of happy memories into his heart that cut no less deeply despite the fact that they weren’t physically real. He’d wanted to die too, for a while—at least, he’d thought he did, but later he knew better—and Miles had brought him back. That first time—sitting next to fresh graves while Bass handed over his gun with shaking, reluctant hands—but many times after that as well, one hug, one lame joke, one hard-won smile at a time. After all, healing wasn’t a destination, it was a journey—he’d seen that on some crappy poster in his shrink’s office the handful of times Miles had dragged him there on his really bad days—and maybe it was nauseatingly trite but that didn’t make it untrue.

And just when he’d thought he was ready to take that journey, or maybe accepting that he’d already been on it for a while, the blackout happened. Nothing like the apocalypse to put your fragile mental health into perspective. If nothing else, those early months in the new, powerless world taught Bass his final lesson in how very much he wanted to live—desperately, instinctually, like a wild animal—and it was a damn tragedy that he’d discovered his new lease on life just as outside forces began making his survival a less certain thing every day. But survival was more than an instinct to him too—more than finding clean water and shelter and searching for their next meal. It was leaving base in South Carolina to find the Mathesons, it was Miles shooting a man in the chest to save Jeremy, it was Miles saying _somebody's_ _gotta do something_ in that tone that jolted Bass out of slack-jawed horror, it was the realization that, like it or not, he and Miles could save people, and once they did, those people wanted to follow them.

There were several hundred of them now, three years into the blackout, and a lot of them were people who wouldn’t have made it on their own. He and Miles were responsible for them now, and it was difficult. They’d found a quiet suburb to settle in for the winter, back when they numbered around seventy-five, hoping to make a permanent home there, but come spring they’d been chased out by marauders who wanted it for themselves. It was a small miracle that they hadn’t been the massacring kind, and Bass and Miles hadn’t had enough fighters in their group to hope to put up a resistance, so they’d struck out on the road once more, picking people up by the dozens as they went. Now, they had a semi-permanent outdoor camp in what they estimated was the countryside of Pennsylvania. It wasn’t ideal—too hot in the day, too cold at night, illness running rampant in the close quarters—but at least they were alive. It would suffice for now. Winter loomed in their minds, and they knew they’d have to find a more permanent settlement before then, but it was still half a year away.

And in the midst of all this hardship—the hunger and the exhaustion and the stress of leading—Bass was deliriously, improbably happy.

He knew it defied logic. He knew it probably made him an idiot—as Miles would grunt occasionally when he saw the stupid smile plastered on Bass’ face most the time these days. But he just couldn’t bring himself to care, because the world might have lost everything but he’d gained something.

He’d never considered himself the marrying type, not really. That was Miles, back when he was young and reckless and impulsive, when he’d asked Emma to marry him on a whim after he’d had a few beers too many. After that went south, and after Rachel, neither of them were the marrying type. Active duty Marines weren’t exactly a good relationship investment, and they liked playing the field. Bass did, anyway, and he was pretty sure Miles did too, even if he was less blatant about it.

That was why Shelly had surprised him so much. They’d only known each other for a few months, but time was different in the post-blackout world. Hours would fly by but weeks could feel interminable. It felt like they’d gone a lifetime without power, like he’d known Shelly a decade. And what was three months anyway when they could all die tomorrow?

They’d found a minister, some sort of nondenominational pastor, in the camp group, and they’d said their vows. There wasn’t anything to make it official anymore—no license, no paperwork, not even a ring—but it was important to Shelly so it was important to him. Miles had frowned and grumbled a little—“What’s the use of a worldwide blackout if it doesn’t get you out of weddings?”—but he’d stood next to Bass anyway, as his witness, his friend, his brother. The last damn person on the planet who loved him, until Shelly.

And now, everything was different.

He’d put off telling Miles for long enough. Bass was happy—ecstatic even, despite the general difficulty of life these days—and he’d wanted to delay the inevitable Miles Matheson gloom from crowding out the small rays of sunshine he’d finally found for himself. But it was going to be obvious soon, and if Miles had to find out by seeing Shelly’s swelling stomach with his own eyes, Bass had a feeling he’d be on the receiving end of an even worse dressing-down than he’d otherwise get.

It was the pre-dawn hours on a warm summer morning, early signs of humidity already hanging heavy in the air, when Bass barged into Miles’ tent with two shotguns in his hands. Miles was sprawled on his cot in the corner, snoring, one leg dangling off the side. Bass aimed a kick at his foot, dodging easily out of reach of the reflexive right hook he knew to expect after all these years of sleeping in close quarters. “Rise and shine,” he said, shoving a cup of what passed for coffee these days into his friend’s hands once his eyes opened.

“The hell, Bass?” Miles croaked. “’S not even light out yet.”

Bass set the shotguns down, tossed Miles’ boots towards the cot, and sat down in a rickety camp chair to gnaw on a piece of beef jerky from his pocket. “Gotta hunt, Miles. Last of the fresh meat was in yesterday’s stew.”

Miles mumbled something that sounded like _could’ve fooled me_ and rolled reluctantly out of bed.

Bass fought back a grin. Neville was on kitchen duty this week, and it was generous to call him a passable cook. He made a mental note to take him off that particular rotation and find something he was better at to replace it.

Miles took a huge gulp of coffee, made a face, and ran a hand through his sleep-rumpled hair. “Should’ve taken Jeremy with you. I’ve been on night watch the last few days. I’m running on fumes here.”

“Come on, Miles. You’re a better shot than Jeremy with your eyes closed. He can't hit the broadside of a barn."

Miles' mouth twitched in amusement. "Good thing the deer around here don't move much faster than a barn."

Bass snorted and got to his feet, digging in his pocket for another piece of jerky and tossing it at Miles. His reflexes while half-awake were slower than usual, but he caught it at the last minute, shoving it into his mouth and scowling between chews. "Give me a minute to wake up, would you?"

Bass grinned. "I'll give you five."

Miles squinted up at him for a second, looking suspicious. "Well aren't you just a damn ray of sunshine this morning." His tone held an unvoiced question.

Bass ducked out the door, just in case Miles could read the secret on his face. "Meet you at the supply tent," he called over his shoulder, not wanting to share his news until Miles was fully awake and a lot less growly.

Several hours later, the sun was high in the sky as they traipsed through the woods, a couple of wild turkeys slung over their shoulders. Game wasn't as plentiful in these parts as they could hope, considering the hundreds of mouths they had to feed, but the animals they did come across were almost startlingly unwary of humans, apparently still unused to being hunted year-round. A few more years into the blackout and that wouldn't be the case anymore. Canned goods were already growing scarcer by the day, and Bass could no longer deny that feeding several hundred people was going to become much more difficult in the very near future if they kept up this nomadic, scavenging lifestyle. Miles had been saying for months that they needed to find a permanent settlement before winter, somewhere sheltered and defensible, with a greenhouse and sheds to keep animals. Bass didn't know how they'd find such a place without massacring another group to get it. They weren't marauders, and he hoped they'd never have to resort to that. Miles took a grimmer position, he knew, but that was a problem for another day.

They stopped to rest on the bank of a small stream, filling the empty bottles they'd brought with them but only drinking the filtered water from their camp canteens. With spotty access to medical professionals and even spottier access to medication, it was better to prevent sickness than treat it afterwards.

Miles had cheered up as the morning wore on, and he was currently grinning and cracking lame turkey jokes that Bass recognized as Ben's invention.

"Because it's stuffed," Bass answered the last one wryly, wiping at the sweat on his forehead.

Miles chuckled and shook his head. "That's the worst one. Haven't heard it since…." He sobered then, clearly thinking of his brother. They didn't talk about Ben's family anymore, having silently abandoned their journey to Chicago. Three years into the blackout, and it was unlikely they were all still alive. It was even less likely they were still in Chicago, and with no leads to go on, Miles seemed to have decided blissful ignorance was an easier way to live. If he wanted to pretend Rachel and Ben and little Charlie and Danny were still alive, Bass wasn't about to ruin that. He knew a good coping mechanism better than anyone when he saw it. Hell, his life was one giant coping mechanism.

He cleared his throat. "Miles, I've got something to tell you."

"Yeah?" Miles flicked a rock into the stream, clearly expecting some monotonous bit of news relating to camp administration or something along that line.

Bass' smile was nervous, but he couldn't keep it off his face. "I'm gonna be a dad,” he blurted out.

Miles jerked his head to the side to look at him sharply. "What?"

Bass' voice faltered a little, but his smile didn't. "Shel and I…we're having a baby."

Miles' eyebrows shot up, and his mouth dropped open. After several long, silent seconds passed, he snapped it shut. "You've got to be kidding me."

Bass felt the smile fade on his face. "I'm dead serious, brother."

Miles wiped a hand over his mouth. "I don't know what to say, Bass. You've done your share of idiotic shit over the years, but this takes the fucking cake."

Now it was Bass' turn to gape at Miles. "Excuse me?"

Miles waved a hand in the general direction of camp. "What are you thinking? We can barely feed the people we have. We don't even have a roof over our heads, a real doctor, medical facilities."

"We've still got months to sort that out. There's a midwife, an ER nurse. That's enough for now."

Miles made a bitter, sad noise. "Grasping at straws, Bass. We can hardly keep our water sterile, let alone anything else. This world won’t be kind to babies." He scraped his hand over his cheek again, repeating, "What were you thinking?"

Bass scowled. Miles was treating him like a child. "It's not like we planned this," he said defensively.

Miles laughed humorlessly. "Well you sure as hell didn't keep it in your pants."

Bass rounded on him, eyes turned cold. "What did you just say to me?"

"Bass." Miles' voice softened, and he sounded exhausted. "What do you expect me to say?"

Bass was silent for a second. It wasn't like he'd expected Miles to be overjoyed. Of the two of them, he'd always been the downer. A dose of pragmatism never hurt anyone, but was it too much to ask that Bass' last remaining family member be at least a little happy for him? At least congratulate him before outlining all the reasons he was an idiot?

"I expected you to be at least a little supportive," Bass said sourly.

Miles tightened his lips, dipped his head to the side in that sarcastic way he had. "Congratulations, Bass. Want me to throw you a baby shower?"

Bass clenched his jaw, breathing deeply through his nose before he spoke again. "You think I don't know all the ways this could go wrong? You think I haven't had nightmares about every last one of them, Miles? You think I'm delusional? I'm not. I'm fucking terrified, Miles. I'm terrified." He tried unsuccessfully to keep his voice from shaking.

All the hardness went out of Miles' eyes, and he looked at Bass with such sympathy that it hurt. Bass directed his gaze at the stream so he wouldn't have to look at it.

"Shelly's terrified too," he went on softly. "I can see it in her eyes. We don't talk about it though. There's no point. We could die tomorrow anyway. That's the world now." He glanced over at Miles, who was now studying him warily out of the corner of his eye. "I don't wanna just survive, Miles. It's not enough. I wanna live, I wanna be happy, even if it's just for today. Can you square that?"

Miles was silent, didn't nod, didn't even blink.

Bass heaved a sigh and scrambled to his feet, slinging the turkey carcasses over his shoulder again and picking up his shotgun. "Look, it's still early. I wanted to tell you now so you'd have fair warning. Shel and I want you to be the godfather."

Miles' eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "You gonna have it baptized? That doesn't sound like you, Bass."

Bass rolled his eyes heavenward, actually shooting out a prayer for patience as well. He'd never been religious, but this impossible, emotionally constipated man might drive him to it yet. "It's just a term, Miles. You're my brother. Anything happens to us, I just want to know you'll take care of her. Raise her as your own. If that's too much to ask, just say it."

He stared at Miles, breathing hard, and the other man just sat there like a bump on a log. Bass turned on his heel and stomped off into the woods, back towards camp.

No more than a few minutes had passed before he heard footsteps crashing through the underbrush behind him. "Bass!" Miles called out, and Bass might have been wrong, but he sounded a little repentant.

But he ignored him and kept walking.

The footsteps sped up and Miles caught him around the elbow, jerking him to a stop and knocking the string of turkeys off his shoulder.

Bass turned around, eyebrows raised in expectation.

A strange little smile hovered at the corner of Miles' mouth. "Her?" he asked.

Bass shrugged, feeling a little sheepish. "It's just a hunch."

Miles looked down, shifting his feet uncomfortably. Bass realized, with a sudden pang, that what he was asking was difficult for Miles too. Bass wasn't the only one who'd lost his whole family. The prospect of a baby probably pulled up memories of his niece and nephew, just two of the many helpless little kids he hadn't been able to save these last three years. Miles might've been a pro at hiding his fears behind layers of indifference, but the tough guy armor didn't fool Bass. Never had.

Miles rubbed the back of his neck, still avoiding Bass' eyes. "Uh, just thought I should warn you." There was a catch in his voice that sounded suspiciously emotional. "I'd be a terrible guardian."

Bass snapped his gaze to Miles' face, and their eyes finally met. "The worst," Bass said affectionately.

Miles cleared his throat. "If the offer's still on the table…I'd be honored."

Bass huffed out a breath, a smile tugging at his mouth even as his eyes teared up. "'Course it's still on the table, you idiot," he said, holding out a hand.

Miles' answering smile was small but genuine. He clasped a hand around Bass' lower arm, shaking on the deal, then they yanked each other into a rare hug. "Sorry I'm such a dick," Miles muttered against his ear, so quietly he almost didn’t catch the words.

Bass choked out a laugh around his tears, bringing his other arm around to slap Miles on the back before releasing him. He wiped a hand across his nose. Shelly liked to accuse him of being a big old sap these days, crying happy tears at the drop of a hat. _And you're not even the pregnant one_ , she'd tease. Really, he hardly recognized himself. But not in a bad way. The very opposite, in fact.

"I'm used to it, brother," Bass said wryly, which got a chuckle out of Miles.

They picked up the turkeys and their shotguns again, falling into step next to each other, headed back to camp.

"Hey, Bass," Miles said gruffly, after a few minutes of companionable silence. "It's okay to be fucking terrified. I know I'd be. Just…everything'll be okay, all right? I'll make sure of it."

Bass just nodded, lost for words. That was the sappiest Miles got, and he knew how much what he’d said would mean to Bass. They might all be slaughtered by raiders next week, starve to death next month, die of exposure next winter, but for now, they were happy, and that was more than Bass had thought he'd ever have again.

For now, it was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I know the camp didn't look several hundred people strong on the show, but I'm pretending that was for budgetary reasons and all the other tents were out of shot. Also let's pretend that Jeremy learned how to shoot well later, during the militia years, because I get a kick out of picturing him being a terrible shot once upon a time.
> 
> Title is taken from "Summer Skeletons" by Radical Face, aka my young!Miloe theme song.


End file.
